


Strange Bedfellows

by holograms



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Drinking Games, Hate Sex, M/M, Morning Wood, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: What happens on leave, stays on leave.
Relationships: Frank Burns/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> because everyone likes the "oh no, only one bed" trope
> 
> thank you to [captainafab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAFAB/pseuds/CaptainAFAB) for talking about this with me and looking it over!

Hawkeye wishes Trapper could have gone on leave with him, but it’s still three days without meatball surgery, without mess food that tastes like sawdust, without irritating Majors.

But Hawkeye is again reminded that life is very unfair.

He hears Frank before he sees him—

“You better find my reservation, buster! I’m a  _ Major _ !”

Sure. Yelling at the man at the counter should help the situation. Hawkeye watches from afar as Frank (tries to) assert his authority.

The man looks through his papers again. “I’m sorry, sir, but I do not see—”

“Then set me up with another room. And I expect a discount.”

“There are no other rooms available.”

Before Frank can truly have a temper tantrum, Hawkeye cuts in. He nudges Frank’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to bunk with me, Frank.”

Frank turns to look at him. He wrinkles his nose. “As  _ if. _ I’d rather sleep in a gutter than share a room with you.”

“Have it your way.” To the man, he says, “Pierce, Benjamin. Captain, sometimes.”

The man looks at his list. “Huh.”

“What?” 

Frank is too smug. “It’s not so funny when you’re without a placement, too.”

“No,” the man says, “Captain Pierce is listed here — one room, three nights. But your name is listed with him, Major Burns.”

Hawkeye looks at the list, and sure enough, Frank’s name is penciled under his. Next to Trapper’s crossed-out name.

“Trapper and I were going to share a room,” Hawkeye says. “When his leave was canceled and yours was set up instead, they must’ve given you the same placement.”

“Well, that was stupid.” Frank stomps his foot. “This is  _ unfair _ . I came on leave to get away from you.”

And then they have a very loud, very typical Pierce-Burns argument. Hawkeye tells him to  _ go away _ , and then Frank says that he should get the room because he’s a superior rank but the hotel clerk has taken Hawkeye’s side and says that since it’s in Hawkeye’s name, the reservation belongs to him. 

“Well,” Frank says, “I don’t want to stay here, anyway. I’ll find somewhere else that respects my rank.”

And then the clerk smiles. “There are no other reservations in town available, due to the Navy conference.”

He’s very cheerful about it.

Hawkeye pats Frank on the back. “I guess you’ll get to sleep in that gutter after all, Frank.”

Frank’s haughty anger quickly turns to pathetic begging.

“Please, Pierce, I promise I won’t bother you, I won’t complain about how messy you leave the room. You won’t even know I’m there! Please, please please please,  _ Hawkeye,  _ old buddy—“

“Fine,” Hawkeye says. “Stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

He knows he’ll regret it later but he doesn’t actually hate Frank (just everything he does), and he doesn’t want Frank to sleep on the streets. He might get lost, and then they might get a worse surgeon as his replacement. It’s possible, with the kind of luck he’s having.

Although, he regrets his lapse of kindness when they get to their room.

“There’s only one bed!”

“I can see that, Frank.”

One bed. One window. One small table with one chair. 

It wouldn’t have been an issue if it were Trapper instead. They’ve shared a bed before (and sometimes when they were really drunk, things happened). He’s less inclined to share with Frank Burns.

“I’m calling downstairs for them to fix this egregious error,” Frank tells Hawkeye. He picks up the phone and stands with his other hand on his hip. 

Hawkeye presses down on the switch hook, ending the call. Frank glares at him. “ _ What? _ ”

“There are no other rooms, remember?” Hawkeye asks. “It’ll be fine. I may not even spend my nights here. But if I do, you can sleep on the floor.”

Frank goes  _ humph _ . “What makes you think I’d be the one on the ground when you’re the dog—“

And so goes their second argument of the day.

Frank sneers at Hawkeye as he gets ready. He says that his primping for a night of debauchery is shameful. He says that and yet: he follows Hawkeye around the room and hangs in the bathroom doorway, watching as Hawkeye combs his hair. 

Hawkeye looks at Frank’s reflection in the mirror. “You seem a bit tense, Frank. You should come with me, have a few drinks. Get laid.”

Frank scoffs. “I’m  _ married _ .”

“Oh, right. I forget that tidbit, since you’re dating Hot Lips.”

“Major Houlihan and I are not dating.”

“Well, you’re certainly  _ seeing _ a lot of each other.”

Hawkeye frowns at his reflection, ruffles his hair. That’s better.

He pushes past Frank. 

“We could hang out, if you weren’t so mean to me,” Frank says. “You would’ve with McIntyre if he were here instead.”

“Yeah, but he’s my friend.”

Frank doesn’t reply, so Hawkeye turns to look at him, and, well. Frank had looked less injured when Hawkeye punched him in the face. It’s not as fun to make fun of Frank when Trapper isn’t there. Hawkeye has a moment where he feels like an awful person.

But the feeling quickly passes.

“Here, I’ll bestow upon you a gift,” and Hawkeye reaches into his bag and takes out one of the many condoms he brought with him, tosses it at Frank.

Frank catches it, sees what it is, flings it on the floor. “Gross!”

“There’s nothing gross about protected sex.” Hawkeye smiles. “Have some fun.”

“Our definition of  _ fun _ is different.”

That, Hawkeye agrees with.

Hawkeye finds a nice bar and spends most of the night there. The liquor is cheap and they don’t cut him off. He does some necking with a nurse who’s on leave from a hospital in Tokyo but then she says it’s moving too fast and leaves him high and dry. He does some flirting with a burly Marine but he doesn’t get anywhere with him, sadly. He accepts the night as a wash and sometime around midnight, he goes back to his hotel room.

It’s dark when he stumbles in. From the city lights shining through the window, he sees that Frank is already asleep, in bed, curled up on his side.

Hawkeye is too tired and too wasted to be annoyed by Frank’s existence. He strips down to his skivvies and undershirt and crawls into bed alongside Frank.

The mattress feels incredible, but anything would after sleeping on cots. There’s only a sheet to cover them. It’s too warm for anything more. And even though it’s Frank, it’s nice to have someone in bed with him. It’s comforting. A good kind of warmth. To know he isn’t alone.

Hawkeye wonders what Frank did while he was gone. He thinks of waking him to ask but then he’d probably not feel as benevolent towards Frank as he does now once he opens his mouth.

Hawkeye shoves Frank because it’s bit cramped with both of them in the bed meant for one (or two close companions). Frank obediently moves over. He’s a heavy sleeper. Hawkeye wonders if Frank sleeps in the same bed as his wife. Probably not. Poor guy. He would probably be happier if he did.

Frank smells like...strawberries. He must have taken a bath. He smells the same as when Margaret is fresh from a shower.

He falls asleep thinking about teasing Frank in a strawberry field. 

Hawkeye wakes up without a trace of a hangover, so he considers that a success. Although he doesn’t remember going home with anyone, but another man’s dick is pressing nicely against his backside...

Oh, right. Hotel mishap. Sharing room and bed with Frank—

_ Frank?! _

Hawkeye looks over his shoulder to see Frank, sleeping. He got closer to him in the middle of the night, seeking comfort of another. Which is natural. As well as having some morning wood. But not when it’s his sworn enemy he’s up against.

He considers his options. Say nothing because it means nothing. Or torment the hell out of Frank.

Before he can decide, Frank mumbles in his sleep and moves onto his back. Hawkeye lies still, waits for Frank to realize what’s going on and start yelling at him for it. But Frank’s sleeping sounds continue, undisturbed.

Hawkeye turns on his side to face him.

Frank is still pitching quite the impressive tent. It hasn’t waned at all. Hawkeye can’t stop looking. His curiosity gets the better of him and he very carefully takes a peek under the sheet.

Oh, yes. He’s showing off nicely through his shorts— 

This is pathetic. How desperate does he have to be that seeing Frank’s hard-on makes him stir down below?

He needs to get fucked. Hopefully today he’ll be more successful.

Frank’s breathing changes and he shifts, restless. Hawkeye drops the sheet and closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep. A few seconds later Frank makes a sound that’s like  _ ugh _ , and then he gets up and goes towards the bathroom.

Hawkeye lies there in the bed, alone. Frank is in there for longer than usual. Hawkeye wonders if he’s masturbating. No. He shouldn’t be thinking of that…

...does Frank do  _ that? _ Is he one of those people who think spilling his seed is a sin? Does Frank know how to have a good time? He has more than enough to work with, from what Hawkeye saw. And from what he’s seen before — he admits he’s had a glance in the showers. It was purely accidental, it was  _ out  _ there, he didn’t mean to look...

Maybe there’s enough time for him to have a good rub at himself. 

He’s just slipping his hand into his boxers when Frank flings the bathroom door open.

“Still in bed?” Frank questions. He tuts playfully at Hawkeye, opens the curtains. “You’re wasting daylight.”

He’s in a good mood. So, there’s the answer to Hawkeye’s question.

Hawkeye has to wait a few minutes to will  _ his _ issue away.

Frank doesn’t ask if Hawkeye wants to hang out with him, but Hawkeye would’ve said no, anyway. He won’t spend more time with him than necessary. Hawkeye goes into town on his own, looking at shops. He buys his dad a nice shirt and then writes him a letter while he has lunch at a restaurant. Nothing too exciting.

You’d never know there’s a war not too far away.

That evening Hawkeye fares better. He meets a gal who is as easy as he is, and goes back to her hotel room and has some unsatisfying sex. After, he goes back to the same bar and has a few more drinks until they close.

When he gets back to his room, Frank is asleep, again. Boring. While it is past three in the morning, Hawkeye can’t settle down.

“Hey, Frank.” Hawkeye sits on the bed, shakes his shoulder. “Wake up.”

Frank blinks awake, rises up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Hawkeye says. “Just wanted to say hi.”

Silence. Hawkeye touches him again to make sure he didn’t go back to sleep. Frank swats at him.

“ _ Hello _ , Pierce,” Frank says, terse. “Now go to sleep.”

Hawkeye doesn’t have anything better to do, so he does. He strips down to his underwear. He loses his modesty when he’s drunk and it’s just too damn hot to care.

“You smell bad,” Frank says, and he turns away from him.

“Sorry,” Hawkeye mumbles.

Frank has a lot to say in the morning about the night previous. Full condemnation for Hawkeye’s bad choices, that Hawkeye should be ashamed of himself, so on and so forth. He just won’t  _ shut up  _ and Hawkeye didn’t come on leave to be lectured, so they have it out, shouting at each other and slinging insults—

“You’re a filthy drunken nympho!”

“At least I’m not a cheater—”

“I am not!”

“You are!”

“Am  _ not! _ ”

“Damn it! I can’t decide if you’re entirely stupid or if you’re so repressed you delude yourself into believing these things!”

“Stop being mean to me!”

“Why? You can’t take it? When you’re cruel to everyone else?”

“I wouldn’t be that way if you showed me even a morsel of kindness.”

“What  _ kindness _ do you have in mind?”

“You could act like spending time with me isn’t a death sentence.”

“You’re the last person I would voluntarily spend time with. I’d rather be back at camp stitching limbs back to their bodies—”

They’re interrupted by the people in the room next door banging on the adjoining wall. Both fall quiet. Frank seems to be embarrassed about his pleading, and Hawkeye is embarrassed that he let Frank rile him up. 

They’re standing very close to each other. It always gets like this, with them. Tense, volatile. Hawkeye either wants to fight him or, for some reason, drop to his knees and give him the best blowjob of his life. One so good that Frank would hate him for it and beg for more.

“Am I really that terrible to be around?” Frank asks, quiet.

“You know the answer to that.”

Yes. No. Yes, but it’s because most everything is awful—

“Yeah,” Frank says. “I guess I do.”

Frank is awake when Hawkeye comes back that night. It’s early — he didn’t bother trying to hook up with anyone. Hawkeye mumbles a greeting but Frank doesn’t look up from his book.

Fine. Let him be mad.

Hawkeye takes a long bath using Frank’s (or Margaret’s) strawberry-scented soap. He never appreciated the luxury of a bath until he was stationed in Korea, where all he has are lukewarm showers that he has to share with others. Things he’ll have in plenty when he goes home: baths, freshly baked bread, a night of sleep undisturbed by gunfire or the call of more wounded approaching.

He stays in the bath until the water goes cool. He had hoped it was long enough for Frank to have fallen asleep — he isn’t in the mood for more conflict — but he’s still sitting up with his book. When he sees Hawkeye he puts the place-marker in his book and shuts it, then turns off the light. Lies down and pulls the sheet up to his chin.

At least tomorrow they’ll be going back to camp.

Hawkeye gets in bed with his back towards Frank. He listens to the sounds of the city and drifts to sleep, sometime.

Hawkeye hates his sleep disturbed, except when he’s being woke up for sex. So, he doesn’t mind it when there’s an insistent grinding against his hip.

Except he knows he didn’t spend the night with anyone...

_ Oh _ .

And then Hawkeye is very awake. It seems as though Frank is in the midst of a  _ nice _ dream — every inch of him hard and his moans are breathy in Hawkeye’s ear.

Good grief. This is what happens when you don’t let yourself go. 

He knows he should wake Frank up and make him stop — it’s not that Hawkeye  _ minds,  _ but Frank would be horrified. That’s enough of a reason to do it. It would be the  _ right  _ thing to do, but his body’s instinct is to rub back on him and have a good time, consequences be damned.

Hawkeye figures he has to do _ something  _ because Frank is having a bit too much fun and as a rule, he has to be involved in the fun if he’s in the same bed.

“Frank.”

That doesn’t slow him down at all.

“Frank _ ,” _ Hawkeye says again, sterner. “Major  _ Burns. _ ”

“Huh?” Frank sounds more awake, but his dick is still in charge of the show. Each rub of it makes Hawkeye harder and harder and fuck, he wants it.

“Hey,” says Hawkeye. “Maybe next time you could buy a girl a drink.”

—and then Frank stalls mid-hump.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Hawkeye isn’t even sure if he’s breathing. This is very much not the result Hawkeye wanted. It’s rude of Frank to get him worked up without even a fight. 

“I didn’t tell you to  _ stop _ ,” he says and slightly pushes himself on Frank.

That’s all it takes — Frank rubs against him again but with purpose. There’s a few moments of frustrating cotton on cotton friction before Hawkeye pulls down his underwear and Frank follows his lead, frantically pushing his boxers down and then there’s that lovely heat pressed against him. Frank slides along the curve of Hawkeye’s ass, driving him crazy but in a  _ good _ way. They’ve argued with each other ten times the last few days and this is a new — and more enjoyable — way to resolve the tension.

They’re both half asleep, rutting on each other, driven by desire to get off. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated but it’s great. Hawkeye presses back on him, meets his frantic thrusts with a hard grind. Frank makes a rough sound in his throat that makes Hawkeye’s dick throb.

“ _ Pierce _ ,” Frank gasps, and it’s incredible how he can make his name sound like a swear word. He’s panting and breathing hot on Hawkeye’s neck. Hawkeye wishes Frank would touch him, anywhere — dick, thigh, chest. He’d touch Frank but he doesn’t want to send Frank over the edge with  _ too _ much. 

But Frank had been mostly there already and he comes without warning, all over Hawkeye’s bare ass. It’s sticky and warm and it’s so damn sexy that for a moment Hawkeye forgets it’s Frank who has him hard and aching for release.

Frank is useless after he’s came — either selfishness or the realization occurred to him — but Hawkeye isn’t  _ done _ . 

He kicks the sheet off of them and reaches behind himself and wipes his hand through the sticky mess, turns onto his back and goes at it, rubbing the slick up and down his length. Frank doesn’t look away — Hawkeye glances to his side to see him watching. Hawkeye closes his eyes and doesn’t bother with teasing himself. He thumbs over the tip, smearing his own wet with Frank’s. Grips himself tight, stroking hard and fast until he comes in his hand.

When his thoughts come back to his head he looks at Frank. The light from outside illuminates his face enough to see a flash of terror in his eyes. He wiggles his underwear back up to cover himself and starts to edge away but Hawkeye stops him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “What happens on leave, stays on leave.”

Frank doesn’t respond. He just stares at the ceiling.

Hawkeye sighs and turns away from him. He could fret too, but he allows himself to forget, letting the sated feeling of sex overtake him.

Hawkeye figured that the next day they would be going back to camp and back to their regularly scheduled animosity. He doesn’t worry that Frank will expose him — he can’t tell about their late night rendezvous without outing himself. But now they have more reason to hate each other. It doesn’t matter how good the sex was (and honestly, that’s another reason for Hawkeye to hate him).

That was the plan, anyway.

Hawkeye looks out the window at the storm. The street below is starting to flood.

Frank hangs up the phone.

“Well,” he says. “Our transportation has been canceled, due to the weather. It’s not quite a typhoon but—”

Thunder rattles the window. Frank yelps, but quickly regains composure.

“For now our orders are to remain here.”

Hawkeye wonders if he can find one of those Navy guys who were sweet on him and convince him to take him out of here on a boat.

At least Frank is talking to him. He must be pretending nothing happened between them. Not a surprise. Hawkeye has had a tumble with plenty of self-proclaimed  _ straight _ men who’ve become strangers the next morning. Deny, deny, deny.

Hawkeye waves his hand at Frank. “Move.” Frank steps aside and Hawkeye picks up the phone and asks to be connected to the 4077. Frank hovers behind him as it rings.

“MASH four-oh-seven-seven,” comes Radar’s voice through the speaker. He’s shouting over staticky noise in the background.

“Hey, it’s Hawkeye!”

“And me!”

“And Frank,” adds Hawkeye. “Listen. We aren’t going anywhere soon. Can you manage without us?”

“Combat has been stalled in the storm, so don’t worry, sirs,” Radar says. “The biggest concern we have is keeping the tents from blowing away.”

“Well, if you aren’t in the same place when we return, we’ll look in Oz.”

“Very funny, sir.” The line crackles. “It’s getting pretty bad here, but we—”

And the call disconnects.

Hawkeye hangs up, lies back on the bed and shuts his eyes. There’s nothing better than a nap during a thunderstorm.

“Well?”

It would be perfect, if Frank wasn’t there.

“They don’t need us,” says Hawkeye. “They’ll call when they need me. They won’t ever need you, so you can go home.”

Frank huffs. “I  _ need _ to go back, I have to get away from you—I mean...”

Hawkeye sits up. “Why is that, Frank?”

He watches Frank watch him. How his eyes track down his body and back up to meet his face.

“Because—,” he starts, but then the lights flicker and the power goes out.

“Nertz.”

There’s no sunlight to speak of, even midday. After some stumbling around in the dark, Frank gets the flashlight he brought with him (because of course he did). Together they go downstairs to the lobby to check out what’s going on.

They don’t know when the electricity will be back, and there’s no generator. Frank tries to argue that there _ must  _ be a way for them to get back — as though there should be an exception made for him. Frank looks out the front window longingly, where the wind is blowing the rain sideways. For a moment, Hawkeye thinks Frank is going to brave the storm so he can put as much distance between them as possible.

However: they are stuck together, irrevocably. 

Hawkeye is able to talk his way into getting them an electric lantern and two meals from the kitchen and a bottle of whiskey. They go back to their room and eat, Frank at the desk and Hawkeye sitting cross-legged on the bed.

They don’t talk much. Hawkeye drinks booze from a teacup. Frank declines his at first but he eventually takes some. He’s a bit jittery. Hawkeye doesn’t know if it’s because he’s alone with him and their sexual tension, or because of the storm..

The rain hasn’t stopped. Every so often the wind gusts and makes an awful howling sound.

“Let’s play a game.” Hawkeye decides they need a distraction, from the weather and the fact that it’s too warm in the room and from each other.

Frank narrows his eyes at him; his expression is harsher in lamplight. “What kind of game?”

“Two truths and a lie,” Hawkeye says. “You tell two truths and one lie, and the other has to guess which is the lie. If you’re wrong, you have to drink. If you’re right, the other person drinks.”

“Sounds like an excuse to get sozzled.”

Hawkeye shrugs. “But it’s fun. Let’s get to know each other better.”

“You’ll use my secrets to blackmail me.”

“I promise nothing will leave this room.” Now they definitely have to play. What secrets could Frank have? Hawkeye beckons Frank to come closer. “C’mon.”

Frank looks unsure but he moves onto the bed, but not too close. He puts the lantern next to them. It feels like they’re going to tell ghost stories around a campfire — the lantern casts odd shadows in the room.

“I’ll go first,” Hawkeye says as he tops off both of their cups. “I live in Maine. I have two kids. I went to college in Chicago.”

Frank scoffs. “Easy. You don’t have kids.”

“Not that I know of.” Hawkeye takes a drink from his cup, nudges Frank. “Your turn.”

“Uh, okay. I’m a surgeon, I’m a Major, and I’ve been to the moon.”

Hawkeye blinks at him. “Frank, I don’t think you understand the point of the game. You’re supposed to deceive others.”

“I could’ve gone to the moon, you don’t know.”

Hawkeye waves his hand at him. “Drink!”

Frank eyes him suspiciously, but he takes a sip.

“Alright.” Hawkeye drums his fingers on his cup. “I don’t have a driver’s license, I’m six-foot-three, and uh...I have blue eyes.”

“Ha!” Frank wiggles his shoulders, likes he’s pleased with himself. “You have a driver’s license. That’s the lie.”

“Wrong,” Hawkeye says. “I’m an unlicensed driver. I never got one at home and I didn’t drive when I lived in other places.” He grins. “I’m really only six-two.”

“No wonder you drive like a maniac,” Frank says, muttering as he takes a drink. “I hate parsnips, my middle name is Marion, I’m a good dancer.”

“Hmm. That isn’t your middle name.”

“You know it is.” Frank sneers. “You just want to drink.”

“Ah, you’re more perceptive than you let on.” Hawkeye downs the rest in his cup, pours himself another serving, rests against a pillow. “I’ve never had a cavity. I’ve never fired a gun. I don’t actually enjoy tormenting you.”

Frank frowns. “You love tormenting me.”

Hawkeye opens his mouth, showing the filling in his back molar.

“I have a sweet tooth,” Hawkeye says. “I don’t intend to be cruel. It just…happens.”

Frank’s jaw flexes and he looks down at his cup, then drinks it all in one go. He holds out his cup for more, then meets Hawkeye’s gaze.

Hawkeye has never seen him look like that.

“I’m not wearing any shoes,” Frank says, “I like my coffee plain, and sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep because I don’t know what  _ prank _ will have been done to me when I wake up.”

Hawkeye looks at Frank’s socked feet, then thinks of how Frank drinks his coffee with so much cream it’s tan.

Hawkeye drinks.

“You didn’t guess,” Frank says, hushed.

“I—”

Thunder clashes, startles both of them. Frank whimpers. Hawkeye has the strange urge to touch Frank’s knee, to calm him.

His head is too cloudy with liquor.

“I’m blond, I hate the Army,” Hawkeye says, and, “I’m terribly claustrophobic.”

Frank tilts his head at him. “You’re an ugly blond.”

Hawkeye laughs as Frank drinks. Frank is funnier when he’s drunk. Or maybe Hawkeye thinks he’s funnier when  _ he’s _ drunk. 

He stops laughing.

“Uh—” Frank stammers. “I’m the best surgeon at the MASH, I know nobody likes me, and I’m afraid of the dark.”

“The best.” The biggest lie Hawkeye has ever heard; he empties his cup. “Scared of the dark, huh?”

“Yes. Well, I used to be,” Frank says. “My father helped me get past it. He’d lock me in a closet in the dark until I stopped crying. I’m not so afraid now but sometimes...”

“Yeah.” He wonders if Frank is afraid right now.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why they’re confessing these secrets. He could blame it all on the booze, but he thinks it’s something else. Maybe. But it’s all too serious, so he steers it in another direction—

“My nickname is Hawkeye, I’m sober,” he says, “and I lost my virginity when I was fourteen.”

Frank gasps. “You are a degenerate.”

“Guilty.” Hawkeye holds up his cup as though in a toast, then drinks. Frank does too. The rules don’t apply anymore.

“Your turn,” Hawkeye says. “Tell me something saucy.”

Frank clicks his tongue. “I’m twenty-five years old, I’m from the Midwest,” he says, sing-song, “and I’m having an affair with Margaret.”

Hawkeye feigns shock. “Frank, you dog.”

“I’m serious.” Frank is very proud of himself. “It started two weeks after we met. We were drawn to each other. She made the first move. Invited me to her tent and we—” He giggles. “She really wanted me to give  _ it _ to her, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes.” Hawkeye doesn’t blame Margaret. Frank may be a moron, but he has a lot to offer. 

And Hawkeye is drunk enough — and horny enough — to admit it. That he maybe. Wants it.

“I’m a terrible lover,” Hawkeye says, a blatant lie, and even in the dim light he can see a flush redden Frank’s cheeks, “I don’t care who I’m with as long as it’s a good time, and...it ended too soon.”

He doesn’t have to specify  _ what _ he’s talking about.

Frank averts his gaze downward. He drinks. “We’re friends.”

A lie.

“I knew what I was doing when I...um. And...” Frank looks up to him. “You aren’t the first man I’ve been with. Intimately.”

Hawkeye hears the words but doesn’t understand it. Incomprehensible.

“I was in med school. The first college I attended, before I flunked out,” Frank says. “He was a real snooty jerk. Posh know-it-all. He was studying psychiatry—”

“Ah.”

“Yes, so...” Frank’s voice trails off. “It didn’t end well, and then I met Louise not long after and I haven’t been with another man since…”

“I understand.”

It’s somehow still raining. 

Hawkeye sets his cup aside on the dresser that’s serving as a bedside table.

“So...do you wanna fuck?”

Frank doesn’t respond — he launches himself at Hawkeye. His drink spills on the bed but it’s no matter. The cup clatters to the floor (doesn’t break) and he knocks the lantern over, too. 

Hawkeye finds himself flat on his back, with Frank on top of him, rubbing against his hip. It isn’t an unpleasant — or unfamiliar — position, but—

“This time you better touch my dick,” Hawkeye says. 

Frank makes a fractured sound and Hawkeye thinks that Frank has came too unfortunately fast, but he doesn’t stop and his hand slips between them and palms Hawkeye through his shorts.

Alright. Okay. Good.

Hawkeye pulls Frank’s underwear down over his ass, runs his hands over it. Digs his fingers into his flesh. Frank whimpers and it’s loud in Hawkeye’s ear, louder than the thunder.

There’s some fumbling but Hawkeye gets his underwear off and kicks them to the floor and then  _ finally _ Frank touches him. Wraps his hand around his dick and strokes and Hawkeye doesn’t have a doubt that he’s been with a man before.

Hawkeye has been discreetly (sometimes not so discreetly) looking at Frank’s body for the better part of a year, and if they’re going to do this, they’re  _ doing _ it. He pulls Frank’s shirt off and runs his hands down his chest. Hawkeye really wishes he could see more of him than the light allows. It’s all drunken groping and sloppy, but they know exactly what they’re doing—

Hawkeye pushes Frank off of him because if they don’t slow down it will end uneventfully (again). Frank shrinks away and has that panicked look, like he expects Hawkeye to yell at him or hurt him.

“No, just... give me a second.” Hawkeye pats Frank’s knee, then stumbles in the dark to his bag, feeling around for a condom and lube. It’s on top — he had taken it with him last night — and he brings it back to the bed.

Frank won’t stop looking at him. “I don’t do that receiving stuff.”

“You wanna try?” asks Hawkeye, but he isn’t serious — he’s hoping to get a good fucking. He takes off his shirt and lies back, touches himself with slicked fingers. Teases himself for a moment before slipping one finger in. He lets out a moan. Maybe he’s exaggerating some but he’s dying for it, something in him. He gets a better look at Frank. He’s got a nice dick.

“Have you thought about it?” Hawkeye cants his hips, working himself open. “Do you get hot and bothered when we bicker? Do you jerk off in the supply room after? Does it make you mad that you want to fuck my ass?”

Frank scowls at him. “You’re a foul-mouthed man whore.”

But he didn’t deny thinking of it. Him.

“I like to have a good time.” Hawkeye smiles at him. “I’ve told you, you could use a good time, too. You’re so tense, you’re dry humping me in your sleep.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me—”

—and Frank is on him again, skin against skin, teeth at his neck, breathing hard—

Hawkeye rips open the condom package and Frank sits back for Hawkeye to roll it on him. Hawkeye does it slower than necessary, feeling the size of him in his hand. Frank makes a noise of complaint when he stops touching him, but he puts some lube in his palm, doesn’t bother to warm it before stroking it on Frank. That gets a lovely reaction from Frank — he lets out a sharp  _ ah! _ and clutches Hawkeye’s thigh and damn, the repressed ones are always the good ones in bed.

Hawkeye gets on his hands and knees. Presents himself. He knows he has a great ass. Frank can’t resist it either — he splays his hand on it, squeezes. That’s nice and all but Hawkeye is impatient.

“Put it in, but not too fast—”

“I know what to do, Pierce.”

He’s irritated. Good. It should be even better now. They should have done this sooner. There’s a passion in their hatred.

Frank holds Hawkeye’s hip tight and then Hawkeye feels pressure pushing at him and he briefly wonders if this is a mistake, but then Frank is in him and he doesn’t care about anything else because finally he’s getting what he’s been craving the entire time he’s been on leave. Something to make him forget his worries, to silence the thoughts that he can’t numb no matter how much he drinks.

Frank isn’t nice about it. He inches part way in and Hawkeye is feeling the nice stretch of it as he draws back, but then he shoves fully in with one hard thrust. Hawkeye grips the sheets to keep from crying out. He will not give Frank that satisfaction. But it’s. Really good.

Behind him, Hawkeye hears Frank’s heavy breathing as he sets a torturous grind. Someone as dumb as he is shouldn’t be allowed to be this good at sex. Hawkeye tries to say,  _ I know why Houlihan keeps you around _ , but the words come out as an unintelligible slur. All the alcohol doesn’t help.

Between them is rough, with no affection in it. Impersonal. Hawkeye pushes back on him, wanting to do something more than be in a cock-daze. Frank runs his hand from Hawkeye’s hip and up his back, pushes between his shoulder blades until Hawkeye drops to rest on his forearms. Hawkeye isn’t sure if Frank means to, but that drives him wild — being manhandled while he’s fucked. Pin him to the mattress and pound him until he’s crying because that’s all he can do.

It gets more erratic, Frank folding himself over and lying on top of his back. Every thrust hits in the exact right spot, again and again, unrelenting. Hawkeye is almost there from that alone. Hawkeye wishes Frank — because it is him who’s giving him one of the best dickings he’s had in ages, what the  _ fuck _ — would touch his cock because he’s terribly hard but can’t manage to touch himself. But he can’t have everything, he supposes.

Then without warning, Frank presses his face to Hawkeye’s neck, muffling a moan as he comes.

And then Hawkeye hates Frank again because he slumps against him with his softening dick snug in his ass, and Hawkeye is left on the edge. He’s almost ready to beg, almost ready to compromise his morals. He tightens around him, whines,  _ desperate _ . Frank pulls out of him quick and that makes Hawkeye feel insane. There’s the sound of rubber being removed and yeah, Frank is enough of an evil bastard to leave him wanting. Hawkeye is about to just drop flat and rut into the mattress but then Frank is touching him—

—two strokes and he’s finally rewarded with an orgasm. Frank keeps tugging him through it. Hawkeye hopes it’s extra messy, spilling all over his hand, dripping down his wrist.

He’s being loud, he knows. Frank covers his mouth with other hand. Hawkeye bites at his palm. Frank shoves at him, flips him so he’s lying on his back, straddles him. Hawkeye looks up at him. In the half dark, he sees Frank’s expression. It’s like he wants to tell him something. Hawkeye doesn’t know what to say, either.

Hawkeye pulls him down on top of him, kisses him. Frank doesn’t resist. He kisses him like he had been waiting for it. Deep and thorough, licking and biting. Hawkeye drags his hands up Frank’s back, grips those strong shoulders. It’s dangerous because Hawkeye is thinking about doing it again—

—and then it’s too bright. The electricity is restored and with it, the lights. Hawkeye closes his eyes, then slowly opens them, adjusting. He meets Frank’s gaze and there’s a moment of recognition between them.

They spring apart.

They lie on their backs, side by side. Hawkeye looks at Frank. He’s flushed, his hair disheveled, and very sweaty.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Talk about what? Nothing happened.”

Exactly.

A week later, Hawkeye is working with Frank in the O.R. They haven’t talked about their time on leave. Back to regularly scheduled hostility. Nothing has changed.

Frank’s grip slips on forceps. His fingers brush against Hawkeye’s.

They look up at each other. Hawkeye can only look at those shocking blue eyes. There’s a quiet fury there, or maybe fear. Both look the same on him.

Hawkeye winks.

Frank narrows his eyes and gives Hawkeye one of those sneering disgusted expressions, but he thickly swallows and diverts attention away and even with a mask, Hawkeye can see that he’s blushing.

_ Uh-huh. _

They’ll meet later. Talking not required.


End file.
